Blue Winter Roses: A Tale of the North
by mejuxtaposed
Summary: Frustrated with where Season 5 left off, with the fates and lives of some of your fave characters in the balance? This tale will hopefully alleviate some of the tension by following up on these stories. This is written in the style of the "Ice & Fire" books, from various points of view. Depending on your feedback, the series may go beyond just the north. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Sansa

Blue Winter Roses:

A Tale of the North

1

SANSA

When I was a young girl in Winterfell, Bran and I used to love the snow. Robb was constantly with Father, or angling to accompany Father on even the most minor errand to a neighboring house like the Karstarks or the Forresters, and Arya would follow around Jon like a stray animal, ponytail bouncing behind her, no matter what he was doing. He always scowled, but I believed - and still believe - that he liked it. It's hard to believe that I wouldn't have rather been inside with Mother or Septa Mordane, learning to braid my hair or sampling lemon cakes, but my favorite memories of Winterfell were always playing in the snow, building miniature faraway cities, as the twilight fell over us like a blanket.

Now, it fell, silent and still, around me and the pile of rags lying prone at my side, and all I could hear were the sounds of Bran laughing, and the raving, howling wind.

My body felt splintered, like a sheet of ice struck with the dull end of a sword. For each breath I took that didn't hurt terribly, I said a silent prayer to the Old Gods. Had I finally escaped the horrible tyranny and torture of Ramsay Snow, or would I open my eyes to see his wicked, smiling face and eyes that held no mercy? I was too frightened to look at first. But I promised myself that if Theon and I were recaptured, I would jump again, but this time from the church tower. I would not hesitate. Ramsay would not have my soul. Once I decided this, I felt empowered, and encouraged enough to open my eyes and look up. I saw nothing but snow, falling, and white sky. The battlements of Winterfell were behind us, and there was only forward.

"Sansa?" Theon whimpered, not moving. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice sounding stronger than I'd anticipated. "I think the snow helped to break our fall." Shakily, I stood, brushing the snow off my petticoats. "We need to get as far away from here as possible, Theon."

My name is Reek, I expected him to say, thinking it might drive me mad if he did. I didn't see any Bolton troops nearby, but we were clearly in a perilous spot. We were far too close to freedom to turn back now.

He moaned - I wasn't sure if he felt conflicted about leaving or he was simply in pain, but I threw his arm around my shoulder and helped him to his feet. He went as limp as a ragdoll cat, but he didn't feel to be much more than skin and bones, so I was able to bear the weight.

"Where will we go?" he managed, his breath coming in small white puffs. "Where will we be safe?"

"I ... I don't know," I replied honestly, my eyes darting from side to side, searching for some sort of cover. Had Stannis's army been defeated? What had happened to the poor old woman's promise that if I lit a candle in the Tower, I would be rescued? Were rescuers near, perhaps? "No one's coming to rescue you," I muttered under my breath. Fairy tales were no more, and had not been a part of my life for a very long time. How foolish I had once been, innocent and thinking I was in love with Joffrey Baratheon! I had to stifle a small laugh, as unbelievable as it was, to think of Joffrey at a time like this. Compared to Ramsay, Joff was a gentleman.

As we hurriedly shuffled away from the battlements towards a grove of weirwood trees, a lone rider on a gigantic horse approached, galloping wildly. In fact, the rider was equally gigantic - and was not wearing the sigil of the Flayed Man, nor the flaming heart of House Baratheon. Still, I did not want us to be seen. Holding my breath, I increased my gait. "Come on," I urged Theon. I was basically dragging him across the ground.

The horse drew nearer, and I could see that the knight had drawn a sword the size of Ice, my father's broadsword. For one crazy moment, I looked up and thought I saw Sandor Clegane, The Hound, there to rescue us. But that idea was crazy - why would he be looking for me? How would anyone know where I was? I still needed to be rescued. Nothing had really changed since the day I had left this place with Father and Arya for King's Landing.

I stopped breathing as the giant atop this majestic horse gazed down at us. Although the day was filled with clouds and snow, there was an intense glare, and I could not see his face.

"I lit the candle." It was all I could manage. My voice didn't sound quite so strong now. I sounded like a frightened little girl. "Did you see it?"

For a moment, there was silence, and I stood there stupidly, unsure of what to do or say next. Then, I heard a shocking sound - the knight was weeping.

"I am ... so deeply sorry, Lady Sansa." The voice, much higher than that of The Hound's, was a familiar one - and it was one I had scorned, ignored. I don't need your help, I had told it, putting my trust instead in Petyr Baelish. The man who had left me here with Ramsay.

I squinted up at the figure on the horse in disbelief and finally found my voice again. "Will you help us?"

Instantly, the woman dismounted her horse and held out her hand to me. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you outside these walls, Lady Sansa. I have been watching for your candle. I ... I had other business to attend to, but now, as always, I am at your service. I will take you wherever you ... and your friend" - she eyed Theon - "want to go." She dried her eyes. "I am Brienne of Tarth, and I will never fail you again."

I believed her, more than I had believed anyone about anything in a long, long time. I took her hand and she helped me onto the steed, and then lifted Theon, as well. Leading the horse on foot, we approached the forest surrounding Winterfell as night came.

Snow crunched under the horse's feet as we walked, mostly in silence. I could feel Theon's body shivering behind mine. After everything he had done to my family, I admit that part of me wanted to leave him behind. Still, he had saved my life, and had jumped with me, knowing he might not survive. Not for the first time, I wondered if Theon had been injured more seriously than he appeared, as he had already been in precarious health. Perhaps he might need a maester.

"Where do you think we should go, Lady Brienne?" I asked, not sure if I should call her "Lady" or "Ser." I had never met a female knight before. "Where do you live?"

"I'm not sure I have lived in one particular place for a long time," she replied, not looking back from the road ahead. "I have been looking for you and your sister, since your mother requested it of me."

I was surprised. "That's quite a long time. Where does your family live, then?"

"The Sapphire Isle. Do you know it?"

I did. "Well, I've seen it on maps. Maester Luwin - the Maester in Winterfell when I was a child - taught me the geography of the Seven Kingdoms. He had been there, though. He said it was beautiful, with some of the most beautifully colored blue water in the world."

"It is beautiful," she agreed. She was a woman of few words, it seemed. "But I do not think I will ever go back there."

I could understand. I never, ever thought I would feel this way, but I never wanted to see Winterfell again. My recent experiences there had tainted every last fond memory. The only way I would ever return, I decided, was if Roose Bolton and Ramsay were dead, and I could live here with Bran and Rickon, and Arya, if she were still alive somewhere. This place was no longer my home, but neither was the Eyrie - my feelings towards Lord Baelish were complicated, and something I hadn't allowed myself to fully explore yet.

"I really don't know where to go," I said quietly, suddenly feeling quite sorry for myself. Where could I start over? Unless the Boltons were all dead, I would have to disguise myself - otherwise, I would be in danger, since I could be used to gain power in the North.

"Brienne, do you think my sister is alive?" I asked, as quietly as possible. "You said you've also been looking for her while you searched for me. Did you find anything hopeful?"

Brienne looked up at me, and I was struck by the sincerity and stubbornness in her face. "I would say so. I found Arya, not far from the Eyrie."

"What?" I stammered, shocked. "What ... why don't you have her?"

She sighed. "She, like you, didn't want my help. She was with the Hound, and I fought him, defeated him. She went off on her own."

You fought The Hound and lived? I wanted to ask, but held back. I didn't want to insult Lady Brienne. "Where do you think she went?"

"I do not know. I failed your mother in that regard. And, for a long time, I failed her in regards to finding you. Today was a day that I was able to keep two promises to those I served." I nodded, but didn't inquire further. "About a half mile from here," she continued, "my squire has set up camp, but I don't think it's safe to sleep so near to House Bolton. We will continue through the night. Perhaps your absence will go undetected long enough for us to put miles between us and Winterfell."

"I don't think so," I said under my breath. Ramsay would return from battle with Stannis's army screaming and swollen with bloodlust. Thankfully, I would be miles away.

"No, I don't think so, either," Brienne agreed. "I have heard rumors that Roose Bolton's bastard is ... a terror."

Bastard, I thought. "Brienne," I began slowly, an idea forming in my brain, "would we be safe from Ramsay Snow at the Wall?"

She looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "The Wall?"

I nodded. "My brother, Jon Snow, is there - a member of the Night's Watch."

"I will take you wherever you wish to go, Lady Sansa," she said emotionlessly, and suddenly a makeshift camp came into view. A young squire who looked to be about my age was trying - and failing - at starting a fire in order to cook a small, furry animal. He looked up, saw us, and stood, his eyes widening dramatically. "Pod! Stop gaping. Take Sansa on your horse and I'll take ... this one," she said doubtfully, eyeing Theon. Clearly, I thought, she doesn't know who he is ... was. "We need to get as far away from here as fast as possible. We're going to the Wall."

"Hello, Lady Sansa," said the squire, bowing a bit awkwardly, "I'm Podrick Payne. I'm pleased to be at your service."

I felt suddenly shy. "Hello," I managed, realizing I probably looked frightful. Looking at Podrick's earnest face and kind smile, I saw no resemblance to the menacing Ilyn Payne, who was likely his distant relative. "Thank you for helping me."

"It's good to see you again, Lady Sansa," he said, bowing slightly. Of course I remembered Podrick, Lord Tyrion's squire back in King's Landing. Pod had been one of the few to remain loyal to Tyrion, and had always been polite and respectful to me. While Tyrion had not been my first choice of husband, he had always been gentle and kind, and I recalled our time together almost fondly - especially compared to my role as Ramsay Bolton's wife, if one could even call it a marriage.

"It's good to see you, too," I managed.

"Podrick," said Brienne, a warning note in her voice, "we need to hurry. Please help her onto your horse. We need to move."

Riding behind Podrick, grateful for the warmth streaming off him in waves, my thoughts turned to what we might find at The Wall. It was a place that I had never, ever expected to go. Although Jon and I had not been close growing up, he was potentially the only family I had left - aside from Bran and Rickon, wherever they were. No, we weren't close, but maybe that could change, I thought. Jon had always been an outsider in Winterfell, thanks to Mother. Jon was several years older than me, and so I couldn't remember a time when my mother's brow didn't knot and her eyes didn't narrow whenever my father and Jon spent time together. I never felt particularly close with Jon - we had always just had different interests, I supposed - but he was still family, and the idea of finally being reunited with someone I could call family gave me hope for the first time in a long time. Maybe from the Wall, Jon and I could search for Bran and Rickon, and we could huddle together in the remnants of this awful world without Mother, Father, Robb and so many others we had loved. Things would never, ever be the same, and I would never look at the world in the exact same way, but maybe, just maybe, things would be all right if I could see Jon's face again.


	2. Chapter 2

2

DAVOS

Last night, little Shireen came to me in a dream, and I knew she, like all of my sons, was dead. For years, I had rarely dreamt, but when I did, it was of my boys. It was always my boys, til now. "Ser Davos," she whispered, "go let out Ghost. Go, now!"

When I finally managed to awaken - getting older meant the journey from sleep was a longer and longer road - I felt lower, less hopeful, than anything I'd ever felt back on Gin Alley. My crushing sense of grief, my ire at Stannis and the red woman, guilt for having left the princess behind when I knew her father was sending me away for a very explicit reason - all would have to be saved for later, as the dream lingered on with a strange sense of urgency I could not ignore. Speaking a few gentle words to my horse, I collected what had comprised the meager camp of the previous night and closed the distance between me and the Wall. Though I did not know what had befallen the lovely little princess, I was certain of three things: her life had been cruelly been cut short, it was surely been concocted by Lady Melisandre, and her father, my King, had not stopped it.

Lord Snow didn't greet me when the gate was raised. Where's his direwolf? I wondered, scanning the cold, hardened, unfathomable faces of the men of the Night's Watch as they huddled together underneath the rafter of a makeshift fire. There weren't many of them left, but I did spot Alliser Thorne, whose shifty eyes probed me for information of the siege of Winterfell, no doubt. Around us, without announcement, snow began to fall.

"Ser Davos," he began, his voice a harsh rasp. The yard, which had been filled with activity, preparations and swordplay the last time I'd stood in it, was eerily quiet. No crashing of metal against metal, no playful taunts - and, perhaps most strange of all - no wind. "You alone?"

Yes, I was about to say, but something in the man's face was wrong, and the words died on my lips. I knew I had to lie. "I've a small retinue comin' up behind me, about quarter of a mile or so. King Stannis ordered us back to collect supplies. We're a tad tired of eatin' horses," I added with half a smile.

Thorne didn't return the favor, but grunted his response. "We've not much to spare around here." He turned and walked away, heavy black boots squelching in the snow. His men stood there, shifting from one foot to the other. One brother of the Night's Watch, who looked to be a very young boy, had long, clean streaks down his face - clearly, he'd been crying, but was trying his absolute best to look stalwart.

Following Thorne across the yard, I tried to articulate my sense of disquiet. I didn't wish to tell Thorne that Stannis had sent me away for a different reason, nor did I desire to deliver the grave news that the Baratheon forces were depleting rapidly, not only in morale but in number as well. My eyes darted back to the men of the Night's Watch and I realized that there were not one, but two familiar figures missing from their ranks. "Where's Tarly? Wanted to ask him something ... about dreams."

"Dreams?" Thorne demanded, spinning to face me, the black fur of his crow's suit fluttering as he spun. "Tarly's gone to the Citadel. Taken that inbred Wildling bitch and her child with him." I wish I could admit that the venom in his voice startled me, but it didn't. Initial glances at Alliser Thorne had told me everything I needed to know. After a moment of silence, he once again turned his back on me and continued his way across the yard. I split paths with him and moved slowly towards the metal cage in which I once spotted Ghost, frantically chewing on the bars, a fierce glow of determination in his face, which almost seemed noble. Just like his owner, I felt.

The cage was empty, which made my stomach feel just like it did as I watched Matthios, my eldest son, fade into the distance and onto death on Blackwater Bay. Suddenly I knew. The dream. The dried tears on the little lad's face. The horrifying quiet in the yard.

"Thorne," I called, feeling the men of the Night's Watch behind me. "Thorne! Where is Lord Commander Snow?"

Thorne turned and looked at me for a long moment, as if deciding whether I was fit to trust. I blinked back at him through the snow, feeling the flakes on my brow. "The Bastard Snow is dead, Onion Knight. He betrayed all of us, and now his watch has ended. He ..."

He might have said more, but an unearthly, miserable howl pierced the silence, and all of us shivered. Even Thorne, I thought, looked uneasy. "He's comin' for us," one of the Night's Watch whimpered, cowardice coming off him like a fever. "Ghost." Thorne muttered a curse in response.

Words escaped me. I had liked, respected, admired Jon Snow. He was an honorable man, much like Ned Stark, and much like I imagined myself to be, on my good days at least. Uniting the Night's Watch with the Wildlings seemed to be, as he and Tarly had said, our best chance against what loomed beyond the Wall - if one were to believe in the White Walkers. I wasn't sure if I did or not - I have a hard time believing in things that aren't in front of me - but what was in front of me was absolute treason, and by that I could not abide.

"You have somethin' to say, Ser Davos?" Another brother of the Night's Watch appeared at my side, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his broadsword. "Because if you do, one thing you should know is that there isn't nobody outside of the Watch whose opinion means fooking anything."

"You were his friend," I said, steeling myself for a fight. "He trusted you. He trusted all of you," I added, raising my voice. The men of the Watch and I stared at each other for so long I thought the moment might never end.

"Sometimes, we put our trust in the wrong people," a voice said, and I looked over to see Lady Melisandre, red cloaked and hooded, gliding towards us, and instantly my thoughts turned bloody. "Sometimes, we think we have entrusted ourselves, our lives, to the right person. But sometimes the flames show us lies. And sometimes, the flames merely show us what we want to see."

My hands closed into fists, and I forgot all about the Night's Watch, Snow, and Ghost. All I could hear and see was Shireen. As I approached, I could almost hear the princess's voice, urging me to read on, Ser Davos, keep trying, you've got it! Forget Stannis, forget honor, it would have to come to this. My hands curled around her throat.

"Sometimes, we are wrong."

I paused.

"What?"

"I said," she spoke clearly, her eyes wide but without fear, "that sometimes, we are wrong, Ser Davos. About many things."


	3. Chapter 3: Melisandre

3

MELISANDRE

The real work was about to begin. Yes, sacrifices had been made, and more would soon come, but that was not something I intended to concern myself with yet. First, there was the war to come. First, there was Ser Davos.

"I ... I was wrong. Please, I beg you." Davos furrowed his brow in an expression of shock. Surely, an admission of error was not something he had heard from my lips before.

Davos sat upright, releasing me from his grip. The tight wrinkles of his face softened, and tears shone in his eyes. Looking embarrassed, he blinked and wiped them away in one quick motion. "Lady Melisandre," he managed, "what happened to Princess Shireen? I need to know."

"All will be revealed in time," I assured him, smoothing my cape where he had ruffled it, "but not here. Surely you know The Night's Watch is not to be trusted." Feeling suddenly encouraged and excited by the task at hand, I rose to my feet. "Let us talk in Lord Snow's chambers."

Davos raised an eyebrow. "Alone? With you? That didn't work out too well for old Gendry."

Despite the excitement swelling in my breast, I remained impassive. "Yes, I forgot about Gendry. Hasn't everyone?" I smiled. "He isn't coming back."

Davos puffed out his chest. "He's too important not to come back."

I smiled. "How funny that you say that."

As Davos went to find us some wine, I retreated into the recesses of the late Lord Commander's quarters and lit candles in deference to R'hllor. In apology. My eyes focused on one and for a moment, I saw his final moments. Traitor. Deserter. You deserted him. I saw Stannis, collapsing at the base of a tree, a grimace of pain and absolute defeat etched upon his face, blood pooling beneath his leg, his men scattered, dead, on the frozen ground. The expression in his eyes was unbearable to see. It was filled with the knowledge that the sacrifice of his daughter was not enough to turn the tide against the Boltons. And that it was not enough to warrant the victory because he was not the one true king, that his destiny was not to take the Iron Throne but to be killed, ultimately, not in vainglorious battle, but by a stranger. Her eyes, not mine, would be the last his would ever see.

"He's dead, isn't he?" It was Davos, a flagon of wine in hand. It was the closest anyone would ever come to seeing my tears.

"He?"

"Stannis."

I turned and crossed the room to the massive oak slab that had served as Jon Snow's desk. "Stannis. Queen Selyse. And Shireen." What a waste, I thought to myself. Considering the unnecessary - and horrifying - sacrifice of Shireen as a final gift to R'hllor to assure Stannis's successful capture of Winterfell was something I could not allow myself to envision, or even think about. Nor were the feelings I had almost developed for Stannis himself. Certainly, many months had past since the union that created the shadow that had killed his brother Renly.

As I spoke, my fingers danced across the letter that Snow had been writing when he had been interrupted and betrayed. "The Baratheons are all dead." I could barely believe the coldness in my own voice, but then remembered what I had sacrificed back in Asshai in exchange for the power of blood magic. "What I thought I saw in the flames was wrong. Stannis was not the one true king." I paused, searching Davos's lined face for reaction. He would never know how much it pained me to admit that my interpretations of R'hllor's signs had steered me further and further away from the truth. Of course, it had been my interpretations of these visions in the flames - not the visions themselves - that had been wrong; Melisandre erred, not R'hllor.

We had not come to The Wall to play out Stannis's role in the war. My powers were at their strongest here not because of our proximity to the Dead, but because here, at the edge of the world, we were closest to the truth.

Davos didn't reply, but I could feel him listening.

"I truly believed that Stannis Baratheon was the one true king, Ser Davos. I believed this for a long time, because it was what I was shown in the flames. What I thought I was shown." I paused, thinking of the blue roses I had begun to see in the flames shortly after I had arrived at the Wall for the first time. And the hammer. "And I was taught, a long time ago in Asshai, to believe in the power of blood magic. That belief has not swayed."

I could not be sure, but in the light of the red candles surrounding us, I thought I saw the glint of tears. "How do you remain faithful to someone who ... who shatters you so? How can you keep believing in anything?"

"Faith can be a strong thing, Davos, a very strong thing. When it is shaken, it can be very hard to reclaim. But it can be."

"I've told you before and I'll tell you again, I don't believe in blood magic," he said, raising his voice slightly, "but in a way, know what you mean." He dropped his eyes. "Stannis was my king, too. I had faith in him. I thought he was a good man. Stern and stubborn as seven hells, but a good leader. And a good father. I would've done anything to get my son back, you know? And he allowed this to happen to his child?"

I felt his anger and hatred ebb and flow like the slate-gray seas off Dragonstone. I considered putting my hand on Davos's shoulder in what I have heard is a common Westerosi expression of comfort, then decided it was far too soon.

"I understand if you blame me, Davos, but I hope you see that I was following my beliefs. Much like you followed what - who - you believed."

He squinted at me. "I don't know, Lady Melisandre, if I'm ready to say just that. I'm not going to kill you, but I'm a long way from sayin' we're the same."

I heard a slight squeak from the hallway outside the heavy wooden door. Davos froze.

"Enter," I called, and the young boy entered, holding a tray of some unidentifiable meat and a wedge of cheese veined with mold. Immediately I recognized him as the boy who plunged his dagger into Jon Snow's heart, that final dagger in the snow. He trembled in my ruby gaze.

"M'lady," he muttered, "Thorne asked me to tell you that we'll be burning Lord Snow's body within the hour in the main yard."

I stared at the boy, but said nothing for a long moment, feeling satisfied at his clear state of unease. "I would like nothing better."

His mouth dropped open, but he did not speak, and after a moment, he departed the room. Davos gazed at me strangely.

"Are we safe here?" he asked. "Because I'm gettin' the distinct feelin' that we're not."

"We're not safe anywhere, because ..."

"I know, I know. 'The night is dark and full of terrors.' How about somethin' a little bit more cheerful?" Davos poured himself a cup of wine - there were no glasses - and drank it. "I suppose I don't know what to do with myself, now that I've no king to serve."

Preventing my polite smile from turning into a smirk proved to be a challenge. "I'm not sure I would say that."

"I'm afraid to ask what you mean."

Calmly, I seated myself behind Snow's desk, the same spot in which he had sat in the moment when I had offered myself to him and he had so honorably refused. It was time to share the truth with Davos. "I was wrong about the one true king. Azor Ahai is here, at The Wall. He always has been."

Davos looked at me wearily. "More Lord of Light? I don't know if I can listen to much more of this, Lady. Perhaps you should stop."

"Remember what I said, Ser Davos. Faith can be shaken ... but it can also be reclaimed."

Now Davos just looked old. Old and exhausted. He would have to rest and then rouse himself if he wanted to be an effective Hand of the King.

"I was wrong about the identity of the one true king because I was weak. When Stannis' army deserted, I could no longer ignore my doubts." I took a breath. "But the army of the dead is still coming, and The Long Night is soon to fall. We are walking in twilight." My voice grew stronger with each word. "Our only hope is the sword in the darkness. And that is Jon Snow. He is the one true king."

Davos's brows drew together in confusion. "And how do you intend ..."

"Faith can be reclaimed," I repeated, placing my wine glass back down on the desk. I would need my mind clear this time, as I would make no more mistakes.


	4. Chapter 4: Jon

4

JON

After the third knife, I rolled onto my back, feeling nothing but the cold, and seeing nothing but the icy pinpricks of stars. Words raced through my mind - Betrayal, traitor, I'm dying, brothers, Walkers, hold the Wall, dying, Ghost! - but I couldn't seem to speak or move, nor put any of these words together into a single coherent thought, much as I wanted to. I did not feel afraid. Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. Lying there in the snow, I gazed at the sky, as though hoping for a miracle, a magical creature swooping in from overhead to attempt a last-minute rescue. I knew better, though - the world just didn't work that way. I rested my head against the ground and waited for nothingness. I thought I heard a few scattered sniffles and perhaps a bit of weeping, but as though from a long distance, and perhaps I was only imagining that my "men" felt even a fleeting sense of remorse for what they had just done. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children, I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.

I heard footsteps in the snow, moving further away; they were satisfied, finally, that I was dead. Left alone in the snow, I listened to the wind howl and thought of how I had listened to that same wind on my first night at Castle Black, with Ghost at my side, wondering if I would find the courage to survive here. I shall live and die at my post. I felt the strength in my body depleting, could hear my heartbeat slow. I am the sword in the darkness, I am the watcher on the walls. Dully, I felt glad that Sam wasn't here to see me die, that none of the few I loved or who loved me could see this. There was one thing to be grateful for. I am the light that brings the dawn. By the time Ghost padded over to me, whining high in the back of his throat, I could only move my eyes towards him. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. He licked my face, then paced anxiously, as though he knew I was beyond his help. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.

As I exhaled a last breath, Ghost howled with such sorrow that my final thoughts were not of myself, but of him. Darkness swallowed me, and I was submerged in nothingness - no fear, no White Walkers, no treason, no bastard status. And then, suddenly, I was running, sprinting faster and faster, snow spitting up around me, and I could feel the wind ruffle my fur as I approached a throng of weirwood trees. I am no longer Jon Snow. My thoughts narrowed down a single, animalistic goal: blood ... and I ran, faster and faster, until the woods, wind, Wall and sky were but one mere colorless blur, falling fast around me on every side.

Common Westerosi knowledge suggested that most of the Starks could warg, but since I'd never considered myself among the Starks, I wasn't sure I'd be able to successfully enter Ghost's mind. It was something that I barely comprehended, but considering all of the things I'd seen when I was Jon Snow, finding myself in a different time and place didn't surprise me. As Ghost, crouched within a stand of trees, I was able to remain hidden as I watched the girl with dark hair and sad gray eyes watching a joust on the outskirts of a great castle looming in the background. As I took in the trees and lush greenery, I realized with some surprise that I must be in the Riverlands, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from The Wall, and that the castle, as beautiful and stately as it appeared to me now, was Harrenhal, which had been ruined and was considered haunted. Still, at this moment there were no signs of its eventual destruction. It was a lovely day, sunny and mild, with a light breeze brushing away the falling leaves.

"He's unseated them all!" a man cried with excitement, his voice augmented by Dornish red. "Yohn Royce, Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold!" The crowd roared its excitement. I wanted to see the man everyone cheered for, but was concerned about giving myself away. Surely a direwolf this far south - and a pure white one, at that - would alarm people, not to mention put my life, or Ghost's life - or whatever it was - in danger. None of this made sense, but I didn't even truly understand who I was any more, and a strange, calming sensation overcame me. This is important, a little voice whispered to me. Whose, I did not know. You need to see this.

I only needed wait another moment before the crowds parted, and another man I had never seen before stood before the crowd. His sword had already been dropped to the ground. There was something in his stance that was proud, but modest. His light hair flowed over his shoulders, which were still ensconced in armor. In his hands was a wreath of delicate blue flowers, and it seemed as though all the women in the stands held their breath as he approached the area where they all waited tensely.

"Now," boomed a voice, "Your new champion, Rhaegar, will now name the Queen of Love and Beauty!"

Once I heard that announcement, I knew I was having a vision of the past. Not only was I a week's ride from Castle Black, I was watching a tournament that had occurred before my birth. Father - Ned - had told me before about this tournament at Harrenhal, in which Rhaegar Targaryen had, in a wondrous surprise, unseated the best swordfighters in Westeros in a competition that lasted days and days. It was also, according to Ned, the day that his sister Lyanna caught Rhaegar's eye, prompting him to kidnap her and ultimately, ignite Robert's Rebellion. Why am I seeing this? I wondered. Is Ned here? Ghost's eyes scanned the crowd, but I did not see any familiar faces, save for the dark-haired girl who slightly resembled Arya. Well then, that must be Lyanna. She was watching Rhaegar approach the stands, her eyes full of laughter. She was definitely beautiful, though her likeness in the crypts of Winterfell did her little justice. Beyond being lovely, though, there was something about her that made me want to talk with her, to know her.

"My lady," Rhaegar said, meeting her eyes with his own before kneeling before her and offering her the crown of blue flowers. Gasps and then silence came from the crowd, but Lyanna reached out and accepted the wreath with a little smile. I could not imagine why this particular vision had been shown to me, but I suddenly felt fate pulling me away, again, to another time and place. Ghost's ears flattened, he turned around in a single circle and then shut his eyes, as if for a nap.

My next vision was far less benevolent. Again I saw the young girl Lyanna Stark, but this time, she was not smiling. She was lying in a massive oak bed, her dark hair splayed out on the pillow supporting her head and her forehead damp with sweat, in a circular room with unforgiving stone walls, and her weeping and moaning echoed off of them as though they would never cease. It took only one look at her face to know that she was dying, and there was a river of blood seeping out from underneath her body. Her breath came quickly, her chest rising and falling. What has happened to her? In the last vision I'd had of this woman, she was so blissful and self-assured. What had gone wrong?

From outside this castle, I heard low voices, then yells, then the clang of metal against metal. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and I, as Ghost, moved back into the shadows to avoid detection. The room was stuffy and unbearably hot, and I inherently knew that we were even further from the snows of the North.

The footsteps approached, and Ned Stark appeared in the arched stone doorway, blood on his armor - though he did not appear to be injured - and a stricken look upon his face. "Lyanna," he cried, rushing to her side. "I'm so sorry I could not get here sooner."

"Ned," she managed, her face straining with the effort. "You're here."

My father, seeing the severity of her condition, began to weep. "I would've fought one hundred Kingsguard until I saw you. Can't we get a maester for you?" He stood and began to pace around the room. He stared in Ghost's direction for a moment, and I froze, certain he had seen me. I didn't breathe. Finally, Ned turned back to his sister and knelt next to her bed, taking her porcelain hand in his.

"Ned, I ... need you to help me. There is no time for a maester."

"Who did this to you?" he whispered, taking a cloth from beside the bed and blotting her forehead with it.

Lyanna weakly raised her hand and shook it, signaling the word no. "No one hurt me, and you know it, brother."

Ned's voice broke. "Then why have I found you in such a state?"

"Ned, I need you to promise me." She reached over to her side, struggling a moment, and then handed Ned a small bundle, which Ned awkwardly wrapped his hands around. His honorable face was stolid, set, and I knew he would keep whatever promise she was asking of him, would say it without another word. "Promise me, Ned." Just then, the baby began to cry, and so did I, because I knew in that moment that the baby was me.

I felt the wind knocked out of me. It was the feeling of every hateful glance from the dark, distrusting eyes of Catelyn Stark; it was every ignorant muttering of "bastard" that had ever been thoughtlessly flung in my direction; it was the walking away from Arya and Ned and Bran and Rickon for the Wall, my legs like iron; it was Ned's unfulfilled promise to tell me about my mother; it was the feeling of always being on the outside of things; it was the loving of Ygritte and standing with her atop the Wall and seeing her die in my arms all at once; it was a horrible feeling and a wonderful one, because it was, finally, the truth.

And then I opened my eyes - mine, not Ghost's - and looked up, and what I saw rendered me speechless. I saw the Lady Melisandre, I saw flames, and I saw Ghost, watching guard over me. Further back in the shadows, I spotted Ser Davos, looking on with what appeared to be a mixture of horror and awe.

"Lord of Light!" Melisandre cried, "Come to us in our darkness. We offer you these false gods. Take them and cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors. Bring back the light."

I wasn't sure I could speak, and I was shocked at how strong I sounded when I did. "I'm back," I managed, sitting up, and looking from Ghost to the Red Woman and back.

Melisandre smiled. "Rise, Jon Snow! And do you still know nothing?"

Feeling stronger by the second, I rose to my feet, gingerly felt my body and realized it was free of the wounds that had felled me. Had the sorceress actually healed me, brought me back from death? Before coming to the Wall, I had never believed in magical things, good or evil, but I had seen so much, I thought now I could probably believe anything. Was I still Jon Snow, now that my true parentage had been revealed? My identity had always been intertwined with, as Tyrion Lannister once said, "bastards and broken things." My outsider status dissolved, I wasn't sure who I was now, nor what my name should be. "I'm Jon Snow," I repeatedly slowly, "and I know everything."


	5. Chapter 5: Cersei

5

CERSEI

Accompanying the setting sun came an unexpected gust of wind, which rustled my bedsheets and dried the sheen of sweat on my bruised forehead. My scalp still ached where the Septa had yanked it close to shear off my golden tresses with a dull blade; the soles of my feet were an unspeakable, bloodstained nightmare. Maester Qyburn, humming absent-mindedly all the while, had patiently cleansed the blood and the human shit from my skin, picked out the shards of glass. After gently washing my wounds, he offered me broth and water, not wine, but I forgave him anyway. I really could have used a strong Dornish Red.

I had, however, hesitantly accepted milk of the poppy to help me sleep and was waiting for its restful effects to take hold. I had not eaten a substantial meal since before my imprisonment, and Qyburn had suggested a lovely menu to celebrate my return to the castle, but I had no appetite to speak of. Roasted dove? The thought conjured memories of the pigeon shit staining the streets I walked. Lemon cakes did nothing but summon the sour taste in my mouth during those interminable days in my cell. And lamprey pie ... at that, I thought only of the slimy eels whose slitherings had sent me to that putrid cell. No, I told myself, you must not think of revenge. Not yet. You are not strong enough. First, build yourself up, and then you can burn them all to the ground.

Qyburn was the only one I could trust, that much was certain. With Jaime in Dorne retrieving Myrcella, and Uncle Kevan named Hand of the King in my absence, I appeared to be powerless, at least momentarily. Kevan was one of those slippery little eels - nothing like my father, who would stomp their eyes out with his boot. So was Pycelle, the blubbering old fool. I saw the way his eyes grazed slowly across my body before Qyburn threw the blanket over me. He sure took his time, that disgusting snake. He will end up eating his own tail and choke on his own poison. Perhaps sooner than he thinks.

Someone had placed a pitcher of water on the stand next to my bed, and slipped a refreshing slice of lemon into a neighboring glass, but it was too far away for me to reach, and I was alone in my room, so it went untouched. Sleeping once again in my own luxurious bed in my own quarters, feeling silk against my skin, resting my head against a cloud-like feather pillow instead of a damp, unforgiving stone wall, was beyond words. How could anyone with half a soul subject another human being to such dire, soul-crushing conditions? Not moving, I closed my eyes and struggled against the sleep that was rapidly overtaking me.

You had better admit it, Cersei: you are something to be laughed at. The Lannister name no longer carried the weight it once had, and exclaiming that "no other noble family compares to ours" had felt like dust in my mouth the moment I uttered them. No longer would stomachs drop and testicles shrivel at the swelling notes that began "The Rains of Castamere." My father had worked his entire life to ensure one thing: a lasting legacy. Now it was my duty to redefine that legacy for Tommen and Myrcella and their children. Yes, the legacy that Tywin had originally planned for us would have to change, but I would continue his work. I would not allow the Lannister name to become synonymous with patricide and incest. Perhaps that was what people thought of us now, but people also once thought the Starks were trustworthy, the Targaryens invincible, and the Martells expert assassins. I snorted amusement at my own joke.

I heard a soft rustling at my bedside; expecting to see Jaime and perhaps even Myrcella, my eyes fluttered open. Instead, it was the maester, his slightly stooped, hunched back to me, his gray head down, intent on something. His feet were bare, with high, almost feminine arches.

"Qyburn," I murmured, "thank you for everything. You have been the only one to stand by me through this ... this horrible ordeal." Facing the High Sparrow tomorrow was not something I was looking forward to. Still, I had every intention of smiling, kneeling, begging or worse ... whatever it took to be released from my sentence, whatever it took for him to believe that I was so very penitent for my immoral actions and would never dream of seeking retribution. Oh, I would make him believe these things.

"Your Grace," he replied, still not turning to face me. I half-rolled towards him and heard the faint clink, clink of a tiny instrument against glass. "If the milk of the poppy isn't quite ... doing the job, I've brought you something else." Finally, he stepped away, into the shadows, but did not yet depart. I could see the outline of his body in the fading sunset, and could see his clothes sway slightly in the breeze. "Your Grace, I thought you should know that Ser Robert Strong guards your door tonight. No one will interrupt your sleep. You will need it for the trial tomorrow." He paused, and not for the first time, I wondered what Qyburn's motives were. Surely now that his experiments with Strong had been successful, he would no longer require a sponsor. However, I was not so naive as to imagine that he felt anything near to sympathy for me. Whatever his reasons, he was still, absolutely the only one I trusted in King's Landing. And especially with Jaime gone, I would have to be incredibly careful in whom I chose to place my trust. Though that was also complicated business, as we had not departed from each other on the best of terms. I was unconcerned about Jaime - we had quarreled before, and then made peace; besides, distance can be an encouraging thing for love, and besides that, he would be returning with our daughter. I couldn't wait to see Myrcella's bright, beautiful, eager face again, watch her reunite with Tommen. Surely, her return would encourage the King's spirits and rouse him from the depression that had been plaguing him.

"You will surely need your sleep," he repeated, taking a step towards me. "It isn't a thing to be ashamed of, giving in to sleep."

"Yes," I murmured in agreement.

"Your trial will not be easy," he explained. "Allegations will arise against you, and you may not be out of danger. It will be a ... a trying time. So, Your Grace, if you wish to drink this and sleep tonight instead of facing tomorrow ... I would not blame you. No one would."

What is he saying? What has he prepared in that vial? But then I knew - truly, it did not matter which poison he had prepared - essence of nightshade, tears of Lys, wolfsbane, the Long Farewell, or the Strangler - the last of which had closed Joffrey's eyes forever. Qyburn was offering me an out, an escape from the unfathomable pain of the day's torment and the pain of losing my beauty, the respect of the Seven Kingdoms; having lost a child and a father, and potentially a brother and lover in Jaime; all of the pain that would continue into eternity, not to mention the constant, harrowing, agonizing fear of losing my other two children.

Gold will be their crowns, I could hear Maggy's brittle, bitter voice echo through the years. Gold will be their shrouds. She had sounded patronizing, almost ... triumphant. I will never allow that to happen. No matter what tomorrow may bring, no matter what fate I may wish for myself, keeping Tommen and Myrcella safe is what I must stay alive for.

I struggled to sit up, leaned against the bedframe, and stared at Qyburn. As I spoke, I listened to my own voice, comforted by the strength of my words, not sounding at all like someone who had drunk the milk of the poppy. In fact, this was the most clarity I had felt in weeks, since before my imprisonment. "Lannisters do not take the coward's way out when things become difficult." I paused, allowing my brain to wander where it seldom ventured: Tyrion. "Well, I do not take the coward's way out, and frankly, Qyburn, I am deeply insulted that you would even suggest such a thing. Tomorrow will come, and you will deliver me to the High Sparrow for my trial. I will tell him whatever he wants to hear. And then you and I and" - I paused, unsure of what to call him - "Ser Robert, will do what needs to be done against those we no longer trust. There is quite a list, as you know." And you know exactly with whom I shall begin.

Qyburn nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. I look forward to it." and again I wondered why the maester would go to such lengths to protect and care for me, both during my imprisonment and afterwards, only to then offer me an easy route to permanent oblivion. While I could not think of a potential motive, it was definitely possible that Qyburn was not to be trusted after all. After he helped me achieve vengeance against all who had hurt me and my children, perhaps he too would need to be disposed of. I will consult with Jaime as soon as he returns with Myrcella, and when both my children are close enough to protect soundly.

"Would you do me a favor before you leave, Qyburn? Close that window next to the bed. It's a bit draftier than usual tonight."

Perhaps he wants you dead. That was definitely my father's voice, distrustful, cunning, vigilant to the point of paranoia. No matter what, no matter where, anyone, if presented with the appropriate circumstances ... As I eyed Qyburn, barely moving amongst the shadowy corner of my chambers, I was certain that in this world, my father had been correct.


End file.
